From One Bucket of Water to a School

The first time I met TiTen was at a water well in Anse-à-Galets, the main town on the island of La Gonâve.

I was still new to Haiti and still learning how things worked. I thought I was standing in line for water, but the system made no sense to me. People came and went, buckets were set down and picked up again, and I had no idea where my turn fit in.

That’s when a boy, about 11 years old, appeared at my side. Without saying a word, he motioned with his hands for me to give him my bucket. I hesitated. Would he run off with it? Or was he truly offering to help?

I decided to trust him. He took the bucket, placed it in the right spot, and waited. Every so often he glanced back at me, smiling, as if to reassure me: “Don’t worry. I’ve got this.”

When the bucket was finally filled, he lifted it and carried it all the way back to the house where I was staying. The next day, he showed up again. And the day after that. Each time, he carried water with the same bright smile, happy to earn a few coins in return.

When school began a short while later, I noticed TiTen was nowhere to be seen in the classrooms. He wasn’t enrolled.
I asked his mother if I could help. To my shock, she offered to sell him to me. My answer was clear: “No, thank you. I don’t want to buy him. I just want to educate him.”

With her permission, I enrolled TiTen in a local school. But almost immediately, it became obvious that something wasn’t working. He was 11 years old, placed in a class full of five- and six-year-olds, and quickly labelled the “clown.”

I could see his potential, but I also saw the problem: this wasn’t the right way to give children like TiTen the education they deserved.

Walking through town one afternoon, I turned the problem over in my mind. Sponsoring one child at a time wasn’t going to work. It was too complicated to keep track of, too hard to monitor, and it wasn’t addressing the bigger need.

That’s when the idea came to me: Why not just start a class?

Instead of scattering children across different schools, we could bring them together, create a space that belonged to them, and shape the learning around their needs. It was a simple thought, but it changed everything.

With the help of my interpreter, Max, and a local school principal named Désir, we began to plan.

We started small: 12 children who had never been to school before. I insisted on balance — six boys and six girls. That wasn’t easy. People told me, “It’s hard to find girls who can go.” But I held firm. If we were going to begin, it had to be with equal opportunity.

We rented a classroom in the afternoons, after regular school hours, and found a teacher willing to join us. Around a single table, those first students began learning the alphabet, sounding out words, and practicing their numbers.

I chose children between 9 and 12 years old. My background in education had taught me that around age nine, there is a natural cognitive leap — a shift in reasoning that helps children learn more quickly. For kids who were starting so late, that mattered.

Those 12 children became our very first class. What began with one boy at a water well had become the beginning of a school.

The progress was astonishing.

By the end of that very first semester, children who had never held a book before were reading at a second-grade level. Their eagerness to learn was unstoppable. Around that table, they discovered not only letters and numbers, but the confidence that comes from mastering something new.

It wasn’t without challenges. The teacher we had hired turned out not to have formal credentials. In rural Haiti, this is common — many schools are staffed by people with only a ninth-grade education. But if we wanted to build something lasting, we needed legitimacy.

I encouraged him to finish his training and told him he could return when he did. In his place, I hired Rosmène Estama, our first certified teacher, who guided the class with patience and skill. With her help, our pilot group of 12 students became the foundation for a program that would keep growing.

When I think about the story of our school, I always return to that first moment at the well.

A boy named TiTen, offering to carry my bucket, set into motion a journey I could never have planned. What started with water became a classroom. What started with one child became dozens, and eventually hundreds.

Today, Greater Good Haiti continues to grow, with multiple teachers, more classes, and a community that believes in the power of education.

It all began with a single act of kindness. A bucket of water that became the seed of a school.

Sometimes the smallest acts carry the greatest ripple effects.